


midnight blue

by Anonymous



Category: Battle For Dream Island (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Closet Sex, Fluff and Smut, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prosthetic Dick, Why Did I Write This?, bottom clock rights, can someone write more fic of this ship that isn’t smut thanks, hickey, no beta we die like fools, slight crack, this turned out a lot longer than I anticipated holy shit, top winner rights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29079744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: sometimes getting to know your teammate is as simple as asking about their favorite color, and leaving your affability at that.sometimes it isn't.
Relationships: Clock/Winner (Battle for Dream Island)
Kudos: 8
Collections: Anonymous





	midnight blue

**Author's Note:**

> *jazz music stops*
> 
> let me clarify: in this fic, winner is transmasc and clock is a trans man. no front hole penetration occurs, and you won't see any afab language in relation to anatomy here.
> 
> may I please mention my gripes with how ominous the 'other' category icon is, compared to how bold and bright the gen, f/m, f/f and m/m icons are? hey ao3, you could change it to a nice shade of light turquoise with the same shimmer as all the other categories, and leave the black for the archive warnings. 
> 
> i apologize for making this the first work under the character tag for winner, and also the first work under the winner/clock tag. if you want to save this for future use, feature it in a cringe compilation, repost this as a copypasta, et cetera... alrighty.
> 
> aight, enough with the commentary. sit back, question your life choices and/or enjoy.

Who in the world put all the cleaning supplies on the topmost floor?

Phone in pocket, pacing within the confines of the elevator, Clock shakes his head as he murmurs hopes that it doesn’t shut down a second time. “Good god, I’m not getting trapped in this poky little steel box for thirty-six hours, all because I felt like getting some. There better not be some fool frantically prying at those doors.”

He plays back a recorded call reminding him why he’s stuck in this lift, whirring past some indeterminate amount of floors to the top.

“Ey, Winner here.”

“Hello, it’s Clock.”

“Pardon the time, but want to hit it at around one or two in the morning, Thursday?”

“Odd… but sure. Anything we need to handle first?”

“Don’t grope my chest. I’ll take off my shirt, but not anything under it - I'll wear a sports bra, but it shouldn't be tight.”

“Been there, I completely get that. Stay safe, alright? I don't want you busting a rib or worse.”

“I don’t mind being rubbed or sucked off, but I don’t want it in either hole, fingers, dick or otherwise.”

“Got it. I’m alright with taking anything up front or back, but bring a lot of lube.”

“Good to know, I’ll fetch a bottle.”

“See you long before the ass crack of dawn, one forty-five, janitor’s closet.”

“Wait, there’s a janitor’s closet? I thought the budget cuts got the best of them!”

“No, they haven’t. We'll find it.”

Scanning the vicinity, metallic, pale bronze-tinged wallpaper lines the walls, glistening with a cold sheen of synthetic grandeur. Polished wooden handlebars line the sides, rumbling with each bump and bang of the lift. A gold-gilded frame nailed to the back wall, with italics scribed neatly into a statement, “One at a time. Thank you.”

He plunges into his pocket, digging out a miniscule plastic clock and setting it in the palm of his hand. Eyeballing the time, about one thirty-two - no, one-thirty three, Clock sighs, “Well, I’m certainly the only one at this time. Who else would-”

Inadvertently, the elevator’s bell chimes proudly through his ears as it grinds to a halt, a digit three popping across the little black screen in electric light. He blinks and peeks through the widening gap between the doors, eyes narrowing at the racket before him.

Clock can barely, yet immediately discern the mess of a scene. Scissors sprinting through the hallways, hurtling towards random doors and shouting “snippity snip”, Onigiri gnawing at a cracked lampshade with an unfazed smile, Clapboard drunkenly clapping their hands and tearfully mumbling profanities in orchestration of this disaster… 

Clicking the close button in bemusement, ignoring its solely ornamental merit, he mouths a terse “what the fuck” and prays not for any of them to swan dive in at the last second. He continues narration to himself, “I stand corrected. Unfortunately.”

Fidgeting in the midst of the stuffy night, he stays stone-still in the center of the marble flooring, tapping his foot in consternation and pressing his ears shut against a cacophony of screeching machinery.

Finally, the lift bounces briefly, settling on the tier of the rooftop shed, loudly calling out to the hotel with a pretentious ding. He trudges out with discretion, looking out over the concrete and into the ludicrously proximate moon. “Great, now all of Goiky knows I’m here.”

“Ahem. You mean, _we’re_ here.”

Jumping at the distinct accent of their voice, he turns around to see Winner beckoning towards him charmingly, their shaggy periwinkle bangs veiling their brow. They almost glow in the moonlight, draped in floppy nightwear and shambling about in fluffy slippers.

Clock’s train of thought derails abruptly, leaving his brain to short-circuit and his mouth to run.

“Oh, hey, Winner. Say, what’s your favorite color?”

Befuddled by Clock’s question, they glare at him for a lukewarm second before shaking their head and laughing heartily. They kiss him upside the chin, half-demanding, “About damn time, it’s cock o’ clock. I thought you of all people would have a watch or something?”

Holding up his palm-sized timepiece for Winner to see, he drawls, “Well, sorry, the idiots on the third floor had other plans in mind. I’ll keep this tiny clock for as long as I live, but never in that time will I get a watch.”

Sweeping the mop of hair out of their eyes, Winner pokes his neck and asks, “Why exactly this pretty little thing that gets lost easily, and not a watch?”

With a daring drawl in his voice and eyebrow raised, Clock replies to them with a smirk, “If you’ve ever thought about it, watches are wannabes. Smaller-scale, often less detailed subordinates, bound to their owner by chain or strap? I pity them.”

Sniggering, they take the chance to crack back, “Chains, huh? ‘Pity’ my ass.”

Embarrassed by his teammate’s joke, Clock bites back a snicker and jabs back in jest, “We’ll see.”

Pulling him around the shed and fumbling about for the hidden back door, they grope for the concealed door knob a few times, cursing as their palm hits nothing but fraying planks. All the while, Clock presses them shoulder to shoulder, clutching their free hand and rubbing circles into their palm with a thumb. In a silky, sensual tone of voice he utters sweet nothings, rambling dirty nonsense into their ear.

Their hands finally find the shiny brass knob, but they take one more moment to back Clock to the wall, arms pressed to the wood and barring him from either side. Face flushed in a grin, they mock, “Didn’t expect you to turn up in the dead of night, but here you are. Stupidly hard, no less, stuck just short of the janitor’s closet.”

Clock retorts, “Look who’s talking.”

Mind fogged by lust, Winner barely musters the awareness to prise open the closet door, as it swings open with an unceremonious creak. They unprop their arms from the shed, pulling Clock by his elbow into the flickering cheap lighting of the room, slamming it shut and twisting the dainty tab of a lock.

“Come, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

Both of them surrender their minds, bodies, words to each other’s grip, in a clamorous, covetous affair - fingers tousling through messy hair, noses bumping and lips clashing, tongues breaking past and dabbling clumsily, lingering and interlocking. Wedged in between stacks of buckets and boxes of hotel supplies, they retreat from their openmouthed kiss, spit strung from their mouths. Wiping it away by hand, they giggle softly at the absurdity of it all, bound by reciprocal desire.

“Tell me, Clock, why do people think this is hot again?”

“Well, Winner, so do you.”

“If memory serves me right, we’ve gone from flinging you up to the roof, to a fling up on the roof. Funny.”

Shifting their baggy top off their head, Winner pecks Clock another time on the neck, earning a brief yelp from him. “ Cosmic irony or not, I’m hell up for this. No complaints on my ha- ah!”

With Clock’s arms wrapped around their waist, they continue kissing down his jawline with short, sweet kisses, interrupting them with a sharp nip to the skin. They listen to his breath hitch and feel the unwavering rise and fall of his chest, before locking their lips on his collarbone and sucking a bruise there. Unlatching their mouth, they pause to let Clock resurface to his senses - sparks of electricity rush through his nerves, his heart lunges against his ribcage, and adrenaline and arousal bubble to the surface. Dazed, he only groans in response, “Go on.”

Driven by desirous determination, Winner flicks at the remaining buttons on Clock’s shirt, popping them out of their slots one by one until the cloth slumps to the cold ground. They brush his arms and ghost their fingertips about his torso with featherlike touch - through chest hair, over faded scars, tracing his sides, running down his abdomen and dragging his pants to the ground.

In turn, his hands crawl their way down Winner’s back, away from their chest, then knead the flab of their stomach. His face rubs against their belly, nosing through the hair trailing down to their crotch. He tugs impatiently at the string of their sweatpants, yanking it down their hips and letting the clothing droop to the floor. Darting back, he pushes his shorter partner atop a wooden crate of jumbled bottles. “We’re running this show tonight, aren’t we?”

“Come and get it, loverboy.”

There Winner sits, every inch of their presence splayed out for Clock to see - their body, trust, lust-glazed glint in their eyes and an instinctive, cast-iron resolve encased in vulnerability. They beckon to him with legs spread and he submits, inebriated with want and overtaken by instinct.

Noticing fluid dotting the fabric of their boxers, Clock slinks underneath, fumbling about for their dick, teasing them coyly as they hiss in deprivation. He smirks at them as they shift in search of more touch, hindered by his other hand pushing them down.

“Say the magic word, and I’ll quit talking and start licking.”

“Fine, _please_. Don’t you dare leave me to run dry.”

In feigned defeat, Clock yanks their very last piece of clothing down their legs, flinging it to a shelf nearby. “Legs over my shoulders, then.”

Winner readily complies and hoists their legs over Clock’s shoulders as he kneels on the tiled floor, head steeped in temptation. Pressing his nose to their bared crotch, Clock begins flitting a trail down their cock, slowly lapping his way down its dripping length. At its base he begins to coil his tongue around it, sloppily licking his way back up to the tip. He repeats this methodical, rhythmic sequence, feeling Winner twitch against him in reaction. 

Enveloping all of them in their mouth, his efforts are rewarded with a soft moan and hands clawing into his scalp. He takes their signal to continue with his ministrations, gently bobbing their length in and out of his mouth. 

“Son of a bitch… keep going.”

They let out a squeak when he flicks his tongue harder against its head, but remain locked in place, helpless to do much but feebly bump towards him. Their weak motions only continue as Clock proceeds further, teetering towards the edge. Heat coils in their stomach, their breath growing ragged as they teeter towards the edge.

“Clock, any more and I’ll-”

With a particularly harsh flick, Winner cries out all too soon, bucking their hips as they hit their limit. They tense up on the spot, blank-faced, mind falling into blank space as they release into Clock’s mouth. Half-limp, their dick twitches.

Letting go of them with a pop, Clock looks up in concern, grabbing their wrist and shaking it for a response. “Hey there, you good?” Shrugging back into reality and getting to their feet, they turn to him and nod, “Right, right. Thanks for asking.”

Stealing a glimpse between Clock’s legs, they can still see a wet spot and his arousal jutting out through his briefs. Crouching down to rummage through the pockets of their discarded pants, they fish out a mostly full bottle of lube and an enigmatic drawstring bag. 

“I’m not leaving until I get you off too.”

“Any way or another, please do.”

In an assertive instant, Winner silently commands Clock underneath them, back flat against the hard surface of a crate. Hauling his underwear off, their hand passes over his dick without contact, instead grazing his ass and stopping to rest at his hole.

“Hold on, I’ll open you up first.”

He faces the ceiling with legs spread, flinching as he feels two slicked fingers push past his entrance. “Cold!”

“It’ll make it all the easier, I promise.”

Inside, they skilfully move about with deliberation and brisk, brushing strokes. As Winner works in a third finger and stretches him looser, he lets out a strangled groan at the intrusion, teeth gritting at the dull burn of each movement.

“Please, tell me how it all feels.”

“It feels… good. Continue.”

Watching him give into their touch, sighing at their mercy, their dick twitches once more and stiffens in anticipation.

No sooner than Clock’s nerves calm down and he relaxes, do the fingers stop moving and elicit a frustrated whine from him. Breaking the suspense, his partner finally opens the dubious bag to reveal a silicone prosthetic, rolling a condom over its length, then pressing it to their groin and coating it in lube.

“You up for this?”

“I’m ready. Come on in.”

In one swift motion they replace their fingers with their dick, cautiously sliding to the hilt. They part his legs by the ankles and bend over him, leering hungrily at him with his wrists pinned to the wood.

Legs apart, face-to-face with his partner’s flustered grin and no choice but to sheepishly gape back, Clock nervously mumbles, “If anyone hears us, just say we were practicing our singing in private.” Amused by their boyfriend’s jitteriness, Winner interjects, “And a duet at that. To be fair, you’ll do most of the belting out.”

Towards their remark, Clock rolls his eyes in mock annoyance. “Can it and get moving.”

Diverted by their banter, he’s almost caught off-guard when they begin slowly moving inside him, garnering a stifled gasp from Clock. They take their time in agonizingly slow strokes, gliding in and out of him with gentle precision.

For a while, it all fades into a soothing blur - smooth motions, bubbling emotions, their torsos fitted to one another and fingers interlaced. Both of them stay suspended within a comfortable, closed-off gap in a blissful limbo of time.

Aching to break this standstill, Clock squeezes his partner’s hands and commands, almost begs, “Faster.” With a coquettish, fleeting wink, Winner obliges and promptly quickens their pace. Rocking his body in time as they drive into him, Clock’s near-silent huffs louden into deep, gruff moaning between each thrust.

“Please, goddamnit, can I touch myse-”

With a smug expression, Winner tightens their grip on him and flatly answers, “No.” 

Nevertheless, they continue shoving into Clock with feverish haste, with his hips stuttering against theirs as he sputters out half-coherent obscenities. He clutches their palms tighter until his knuckles turn pale, attempting to root himself in the midst of each sensation.

Winner’s strength begins to falter as their pounding grows frenetic, body overtaken by instincts and want. They slow down, breathily panting, “Clock, I’m fucking close.”

Their boyfriend below them shouts back, “Well, so am I. Keep fucking me then, Winner.”

Following a few more powerful thrusts on his partner’s half, Clock’s mouth gapes in a yell as he comes, body shuddering in orgasm from head to toe. Winner recklessly thrusts into Clock, riding him through his high before they, too, arch their back and yelp.

Within this vast life, there exists a little death. A state in which they lay slumped in each other’s bare embrace, eyes shut and heads sinking into endless warmth.

Voice wavering with doubt, Winner whispers, “I’m not just a washed-up face of fame, the pity option to you, am I?”

In reassurance, Clock replies, “You’re so much more than a shadow - if anything, I'm surprised to be here with you."

"But life has its ways, doesn't it?"

"Look at all the facets to you - quick to act, witty, laid back and soft, and…”

Arms wrung around their waist, he snuggles up to their side contentedly, drowsing off next to them. They feel the steady thump of his heart, soothing their mind and lulling them into cuddling as they link elbows with him. “Huh.”

Winner is the first of them to jolt back into consciousness, rudely awakened by a broom toppling on their leg. Taking another whiff of the air, they scrunch their nose and grumble, “Ugh, it reeks of bleach.” Sensing the film of sweat clinging to them and their lover, they gripe, “Of course, I’m drenched in even more sweat than I already am.”

Clock bolts awake at his partner’s comment, adding, “Yep, I got used to that in my early days. Welcome to collective perspiratory hell.” He stretches upwards with a twinge of pain, his back sore from laying against hard planks. “Ow, my spine…”

Throwing the rubber into a trash can and pocketing the rest of their supplies, Winner offers, “Want me to play makeshift chiropractor back in the cabins? I won’t leave you with a crooked gait like last time, I promise.”

Pulling his trousers back up, Clock exhales, “Worth it.”

Yanking their sweatpants back over their legs, Winner notices the bruise on Clock’s collarbone, still glaringly visible like a crude mark of foolery. They point at it and nervously laugh, “Uh, sorry about the massive hickey? I know a trick or two to hide it.”

Buttoning up his top, Clock jokes, “Hey, look on the bright side. My collection of ridiculous collared shirts will finally see some good use.”

Grabbing some detergent and a rag, they quickly pat down the clutter of the room. “Eh, nothing new for the poor old janitor. We aren’t the first, and certainly not the last. Nor are we the wildest bunch, by a long shot. I swear on my knowledge, I’ve heard parties of five in this same dingy walk-in cupboard.” 

“For the love of Zero, five people at once?”

Swinging the door away by its chipping hinges and heading towards the front of the outhouse, they elaborate in a droll tone, “Come to think of it, make that six.”

After they finish, they hop back into the elevator, opting to head towards the ground floor. Clock announces in a deadpan tone, “Away we go, I guess.” Looking to cut the stifling silence, he blurts at Winner, “No, really - what is your favorite color? Vermillion, correct?”

Scrutinizing the clothing upon their form, dyed in varying shades of blue, they point to themselves and mutter, “Take a wild guess.”

Pointing back with finger guns, Clock tilts his head to their side and laughs, “I know, I’m just playing. You got a specific code in mind, though? Personally, I adore one-nine-one-nine-seven-o.”

They hesitate, “Er… haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking of, but I’m fond of periwinkle. Soft and bold, two sides of a coin.”

Pointing through the air as if examining a boundless canvas, he states, “That should be nine-e-a-nine-e-c - nope, d.”

They firmly wrap their arms around Clock’s waist, nuzzling cheeks with him. “Cool. Still don’t have a clue, but as you told me, there’s around… sixteen million, seven hundred and seventy-seven thousand, two-hundred and sixteen colors. Saying you’re the one perfect tinge among them is stale, but you lie within those six, that’s for sure.”

Blushing, Clock nuzzles him back and whispers in a hug, “Still cheesy.”

With an oddly sly grin, as if hiding a secret, they prod his shoulder. “Missing something, good sir?”

Just as he digs through his pockets and notices something’s absence, he turns to his partner, who skittishly holds out the same clock for him to retrieve. He traces the ridges of their palm, fingertips delicately running over the lines as if navigating a map of affinity.

“Thanks, nearly forgot about that. One sec.”

When he sets his palm down to reclaim it, they slot their fingers between his in a soft, yielding grip.

“Too slow!”

He locks his hand in place with Winner’s, chuckling along with his partner in ringing peals of laughter. A glowing burst of comfortable amiability flickers between them, tying them at the wrist with unspoken trust. “Love ya, Winner.”

Clock tenderly kisses them atop their forehead, to which they impishly steal one back from his lips. “Love ye too, Clock.”

These mundane few minutes split into limited blinks of infinity, for both to spend hand in hand.


End file.
